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He stared at her admiringly. In Elizabeth, he
discerned, for the first time, more than a modicum
of her father’s resolute personality; he saw
clearly that she dominated her mother and Jane and,
like The Laird, would carry her objective, once she
decided upon it, regardless of consequences.

“They neglected to inform you how much time
they would require to think it over, did they not?”
Nan interrogated mildly. “And they didn’t
tell you approximately when I should look for their
visit?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Oh, I knew they wouldn’t submit,”
Nan flung back at him. “They despise me—­impersonally,
at first and before it seemed that I might dim the
family pride; personally, when it was apparent that
I could dim it if I desired. Well, I’m
tired of being looked at and sneered at, and I haven’t
money enough left to face New York again. I had
dreamed of the kind of living I might earn, and when
the opportunity to earn it was already in my grasp,
I abandoned it to come back to Port Agnew. I
had intended to play fair with them, although I had
to lie to Donald to do that, but—­they hurt
something inside of me—­something deep that
hadn’t been hurt before—­and—­and
now—­”

[Illustration: “I’M A MAN WITHOUT
A HOME AND YOU’VE GOT TO TAKE ME IN,
NAN.”]

“Now what!” Mr. Daney cried in
anguished tones.

“If Donald McKaye comes down to the Sawdust
Pile and asks me to marry him, I’m going to
do it. I have a right to happiness; I’m—­I’m
tired—­sacrificing—­Nobody cares—­no
appreciation—­Nan of the Sawdust Pile will
be—­mistress of The Dreamerie—­and
when they—­enter house of mine—­they
shall be—­humbler than I. They shall—­”

As Mr. Daney fled from the house, he looked back through
the little hall and saw Nan Brent seated at her tiny
living-room table, her golden head pillowed in her
arms outspread upon the table, her body shaken with
great, passionate sobs. Mr. Daney’s heart
was constricted. He hadn’t felt like that
since the Aurora Stock Company had played “East
Lynne” in the Port Agnew Opera House.

XXXVIII

At the Sawdust Pile the monotony of Nan Brent’s
life remained unbroken; she was marking time, waiting
for something to turn up. Since the last visit
of the McKaye ambassador she had not altered her determination
to exist independent of financial aid from the McKaye
women or their father,—­for according to
her code, the acceptance of remuneration for what
she had done would be debasing. Nan had made
this decision even while realizing that in waiving
Mr. Daney’s proffer of reimbursement she was
rendering impossible a return to New York with her
child. The expenses of their journey and the maintenance
of their brief residence there; the outlay for clothing